by Bruhns, Nina
Crap. This could get very ugly, as Kick would say.
She had to get down there first, and remove all her belongings. Anything that would give away her presence. Kick’s life depended on her staying alive and free.
She managed to rush down the hill without killing herself or leaving too obvious tracks, then clamber up onto the camel and get the recalcitrant beast moving. For a moment she was so terrified she debated with herself if she really should go back to camp to gather up any signs of a second person . . . or just take her chances.
Except she also needed water. She only had a half bottle left. And no food. Heck, no sunscreen, either. Oh, yeah, or weapons, other than a cigarette lighter. She had to risk going back. All of Kick’s guns were still at camp—except for the SIG, which he’d had with him—along with everything else she’d need to survive in this desolate country.
Let alone rescue him.
Just thinking about the man she loved in the clutches of those maniacs made her heart sick with pain. And bolstered her courage.
Pack up and get as far away from here as fast as you can.
Nope. Not gonna happen, baby.
Either both of them got out of this godforsaken place alive, or neither of them did.
Make that all three of them.
She turned the camel and urged it forward, heading to the wadi.
Failure wasn’t an option. She had plans for Kick. He might think he could never . . . whatever . . . but last night he’d shown her he loved her, even if he couldn’t say the words. Hell, she didn’t care about the past. His past, or hers. For the first time ever, she was more concerned about the future. As in, she wanted a future. A future with him.
It was up to her to make sure they both got that chance.
All she needed was a plan. And water, sunscreen, and anything in the field pack that went bang.
GINA gazed at Gregg over the rim of her wineglass. Yep, it was official. She was a total weenie.
The jerk hadn’t even asked her out to dinner. Again. And yet, for some mysterious, incomprehensible total-insanity reason, she’d let him into her apartment anyway when he’d shown up at her doorstep at a quarter till the middle of the night.
Again.
So granted, he was the hottest thing she’d ever seen in a pair of pants, or those black T-shirts and leather jacket he always wore. Or that lickable bronze tan that left white crinkle marks at the corners of his eyes and thin white lines shooting back into his military-short haircut from wearing those sexy aviator sunglasses all day.
Never mind when he took off those pants, T-shirts, and shades.
Okay, so he was one killer hunky man.
But sorry. No excuse. Gregg van Halen was a Neanderthal of the first degree.
Because not only all that, but now he wanted to know why she hadn’t told him she’d be working the afternoon shift at the hospital. And insisting she detail for him exactly what she had planned for tomorrow. Like it was his God-given right to know.
So unattractive in a man.
The worst part was, she was seriously considering giving in and telling him. Just so he’d stop with the annoying Sphinx imitation.
She gave a silent eye roll. More like sphincter.
She took a big sip of wine. “You have real control issues, you know,” she told him, irritated as hell.
He gazed back at her impassively. “So do you, sweet thing.”
Okay. Yeah. So sue her. She liked being in charge of every aspect of her life. Who didn’t? She hated it when she wasn’t in control.
Like with him, for instance.
Except, wait. He seemed to control every damn thing that went on between the two of them. Especially in bed.
And God help her if that part didn’t arouse her like nothing else ever had. She, who had been a tireless women’s advocate all her life, all but swooning over a man who dominated her sexually.
How freaking nauseating was that?
And he’d completely spoiled her for all those harmless young interns and research assistants forever.
Damn him, the bastard. Because this guy was so not the type to stick around. Not even to feed her sudden and über mortifying appetite for being tied up and helpless when she was naked.
Lord.
She took another fortifying chug of wine. “Look. I’ll admit I enjoy the things you do in bed. I’m a strong woman, and it’s a huge turn-on to meet a man who”—ho-boy—“has a strong hand sexually. But—”
His brow rose as he interrupted. “Is that what this is about? You want me to spank the information out of you?”
“No!” she said, appalled that he would think that. And the heat that shot through her limbs was from anger, not excitement. “No. Let’s just say there’s a big difference between what I like in bed and what I’ll allow outside the bedroom. I don’t need a man, don’t want a man running my life. So don’t even try that caveman bullshit with me. Okay?”
Tilting back in his chair, he gazed at her for a while, hands laced over his abdomen, his pale blue eyes unreadable. Then he said, “What if I told you someone has been following you for the past few days?”
Wait. What? Her wineglass sloshed. “Who? Why would they be doing that?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Gina, you’ve been asking a lot of indiscriminate questions about a CIA black op. Your best friend is suspected of stealing drugs from a hospital. You work in a controversial field known to be of interest to terrorists. Your ex-fiancé is an FBI agent. Hell, take your pick.”
Her jaw dropped. Indiscriminate? Terrorists? That was an awful lot right off the tip of his tongue. Did he really think—
“How do you know about Wade?” she asked warily, concentrating on the easy one. She was pretty certain she hadn’t mentioned her former lover to her current one, who just regarded her evenly. “Right. Silly me. You’re a goddamn secret agent. You know everything. Except, apparently, who is following me.” She lifted her glass in a salute.
“Not my job,” he said, unperturbed. “Just happened to notice.”
Not his job.
A frisson of suspicion sifted through her. Someone was following her, but it wasn’t her secret agent boyfriend’s job to find out who. Then . . . “What exactly is your job, Gregg?”
The corners of his mouth curled. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, it’s not that.”
His gaze didn’t waver as she drilled him with hers. Total innocence. Yeah, right. More like really, really good at his job. As a secret frigging agent.
She leaned forward. “I think I must have been asking too many indiscriminate questions about Rainie. The CIA sent you to placate me. Didn’t they,” she demanded, with a sudden sinking feeling it might actually be true.
Jeez, why hadn’t she put two and two together before this? He’d been sent to keep tabs on her and shut her up! To deflect her persistent digging for the truth about Rainie’s disappearance. Using whatever means necessary. Like false information and doctored photos. And mind-blowing, no-strings-wanted sex.
Wow.
And hadn’t that worked like a damn charm. She hadn’t made a single irate phone call since the first time they’d—
Oy.
“Placate,” he echoed. “Cute.” The front legs of his chair hit the carpet with a soft thud. “All this from being a gentleman.”
This time she laughed aloud. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Giving the lady what she wants,” he said mildly, getting to his feet and coming around the table. Damn, he was big. And strong. Whoops. And angry. “That is the definition of a gentleman, isn’t it?”
Okay, now he was scaring her.
So what was new?
She scrambled up from her chair, knocking over her wine. “No. The definition of a gentleman is someone who always tells the truth.”
He loomed over her, his smile both amused and intimidating. “The truth? Hell. That wouldn’t be any fun, now, would it?”
TEN minutes later, Rainie tied her camel just outside the
sheltered hollow where she and Kick had hidden their belongings. She had to leave it close by, where it would be found. Carefully, she crept along the outcropping that obscured the hideaway from the wadi, hugging the stone wall.
At the edge of their encampment, she halted, scanning the floor of the deep riverbed. No sign that their secret place had been disturbed . . . None of their things had been moved.
She tilted her head to listen. All quiet on the terrorist front. No shouting. No gunshots.
So far, so good.
Setting to work, she swiftly gathered the parachute they’d slept on, only to pause in frozen anguish when she caught the lingering scent of their intimacy. Oh, God. Kick. I’m coming for you, baby. Forcing herself back into action, she swiped up the long duffel bag with his knives and sniper rifle and stuffed the chute into it, along with her jeans and T-shirt, which she’d left spread on a boulder last night to air out. A waterskin quickly joined them, though reluctantly she left the other behind, or the searchers would be suspicious. She hesitated over which field pack to grab. Settled on the one containing the SATCOM, and threw the first aid kit and a handful of MREs on top of the extra DCUs and miscellaneous things still in the pack.
All at once she heard yelling. In Arabic. Echoing down the wadi from the other direction. The direction of the terrorists.
Crap. Out of time.
Slinging the field pack over one shoulder and the duffel over the other, she started backing up, scanning for anything she shouldn’t have left. Her heart was pounding out of control. Terrified, she prepared to turn and run like hell back to where the second camel was still hidden.
When suddenly she was grabbed from behind.
Panic exploded through her. She tried to scream. But a hand slapped over her mouth. Hard.
Please, God, no!
She kicked and fought, trying to tear herself from her captor’s unrelenting hold.
But the man was as strong and impervious as the Terminator. Despite her struggles, he easily dragged her and the heavy packs back along the wadi.
Please, please, please. This could not be happening. She couldn’t believe they’d caught her! And so soon.
Tears of desperation sprang to her eyes. From the pain of Terminator Man’s merciless grip. But more from the thought of letting down the man she loved. So completely.
Oh, Kick, I am so, so sorry.
Now he really was going to die.
And surely she would, too.
“ALEX!”
Kick was still reeling with shock. His fingers stalled on his friend’s grizzled cheek, unable to break the contact even though he knew better than to touch a man as feral as Alex Zane had obviously become. Kick had to literally hold himself back from grabbing his friend into his arms and hugging him hard.
Holy fucking shit, Alex was alive! But how?
God he needed a fix. Bad.
The man Kick had thought dead these sixteen months opened his tightly shut eyes. “Alex?” He repeated his own name uncertainly, as if . . .
“Oh, man, you’re alive,” Kick said, nearly choking on emotion—happiness and dismay and stunning shock. His head spun with dizziness. “Don’t you recognize—” His words cut off as he realized to his horror . . .
Aw, God. Alex didn’t recognize him!
Behind the matted mop of hair and beard that mostly hid his face, those green eyes filled with a volatile mix of hope and suspicion. “You know me?” Alex’s voice was cracked and rusty with disuse. “You know my name?”
“Yeah, of course I do. It’s Kick, man. We’ve been”—he swallowed—“friends for years.”
“Kick? But . . . you said Alex.”
Ah, shit. Kick felt like there was a giant stone sitting on his chest. Even bigger than for the past week. “I’m Kick, buddy. You’re Alex. Don’t you . . . You really don’t know who you are?”
“Alex,” he whispered, as though hearing the name for the first time.
“Christopher Alexander Zane. You were . . . lost in Afghanistan. We thought—I thought—you were dead.”
“Dead.”
Very gingerly, Alex sat back on his mattress. It was unnerving how those familiar yet unbearably distant eyes peered back at him through that curtain of wild-man hair. Jesus, how he must have suffered. To survive being skinned alive by dragging behind that truck, then somehow to be transported to this armpit of the world only to be treated worse than an animal. Kick couldn’t even imagine the hardships the man had endured. No wonder his mind had shut down. Or maybe it had been irreparably damaged. God, he didn’t even want to think about that possibility.
Alex leaned forward and beckoned with blackened fingers. Kick scooted closer. Tears glistened on his friend’s cheekbones as he whispered, “Have you come to rescue me from the dead?”
Kick felt his own eyes sting as he swallowed again, more heavily. “Yeah, buddy,” he promised him. “I’ve come to get you. Gonna take you home.”
And he would. If it was the last thing he ever did.
“SSST ! Stop struggling! Ay merde!”
At the low command, muttered in French-accented English from behind, Rainie did stop. Stunned.
“Mademoiselle Martin, it’s me, Girard Virreau.”
Surprise nearly knocked the wind from her lungs. She turned her head and he relaxed his grip on her enough to confirm his identity. Omigod! It really was him, the charming French count from the Doctors for Peace camp!
“No screams, non?” he whispered.
She shook her head, trying to quell the shaking in her limbs. Lord he’d scared her. He let go and put a finger to his lips to keep her from speaking. The angry voices of the terrorists were getting closer and closer. Any second now they would discover her and Kick’s hideaway and belongings. At least those she’d left there.
He took the backpack from her and waggled his head for her to follow, which she did, even though her legs still felt like two leaden noodles. As swiftly and quietly as possible they made their way along the rocks at the base of the wadi wall, until they came to a large boulder. Virreau disappeared behind it. She followed. There was a shallow natural cave behind the boulder, where he now crouched, waving for her to join him. They might actually have a chance of escaping detection.
Terror pounded through her veins with every heartbeat. Along with a thousand questions. But she let him put his arm around her, and buried her face against his shoulder as, mere yards away, the terrorists triumphantly found her former encampment and tore through Kick’s belongings.
A few minutes later the tangos left, carrying away every last thing, as well as the camel, which they’d also found.
When they were sure the search party had gone for good, she let out a shuddering breath. “That was close,” she whispered. Drawing away from him, she hugged herself around the middle, relief nearly bending her in half. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe they didn’t find us.” She couldn’t stop the tears that trickled down her cheeks.
He gave her a crooked smile and handed her an embroidered handkerchief. “Do not worry, you are safe now, chérie.”
She straightened, dabbing at her eyes. “Not that I’m ungrateful for the company, but, Girard, what are you doing here?”
He gave a shrug. “When Marc told me you had gone with Monsieur Jackson, well, I simply must come after you. Make sure you are all right. It is a very foolish thing to do, Rainie. These men are not to trifle with.”
“Marc told you where we were going?” That surprised her even more than the count’s sudden appearance.
“But of course. When he woke up, he was very worried about you, chérie.”
Strange. Marc had been the one to talk Kick into taking her with him in the first place. Something must have made Marc change his mind. And what about Nate? Didn’t he say anything?
“You see,” Virreau interrupted her thoughts, “as a doctor I have had dealings with the fanatics in these insurgent camps. God forbid you should fall into their hands.”
She crumpled the handker
chief in her fist. “That’s what Kick kept saying. But now they have him and I’m scared to death they’ll hurt him.”
Virreau let out a low sigh. “Yes, I am sure they will.”
“I can’t let that happen. I’ve got to get him out of there!” She shut her eyes for a moment to keep from breaking down completely. Breathe in. Let it out slowly. Breathe in.
She opened them to Virreau giving her a look of sympathy. Although . . . for a split second it seemed more like pity.
“I understand,” he said, his expression smoothing out. “But as I said, I have had dealings with these men. Let me see what I can do.”
Hope whooshed through her. But also disbelief. “You mean, like, go in and talk to those people? You really think you can get them free?”
His eyes sharpened. “Them?”
“They have another prisoner, too. Besides Kick. Another Westerner.”
Concern whipped across Virreau’s face. “You have seen this man?”
She shook her head. “No. But Kick did. That’s why he went down there, to—”
“Mon dieu.” Virreau suddenly became furious. “This is very bad.”
“I know. I have to do something—”
“Non!” His vehemence shocked her to silence. But his face immediately smoothed in apology. “You must not risk your life, chérie, attempting anything foolish.”
Where had she heard that before? “But I can’t just sit here and—”
“Yes. You can. You must.” He gripped her arms fervently. “Let me go instead.”
“But—”
“They know I am a doctor. I have met them. They wouldn’t dare hurt me.”
She wasn’t so sure about that. Not after they’d found Kick on their doorstep. But if Girard was willing, she had to let him try. Still . . . “What do I do if they take you prisoner, too?”