The thought hurt, but she shoved it aside. “I know you’ve lost men recently. A whole camp.”
“A prisoner, too. He’s worth a lot of money.” Again with the gun waving. “Did you take him and make my men sick?”
“Would I be here now if I had?”
After a moment humming with tension, he relaxed and lowered the gun. Rookie move. If she had a weapon of her own, she could’ve taken him out right then. Obviously, the deadly Goody Igwe was not used to fighting anyone who knew how to fight back. These men claimed to be fighting for a noble cause—fighting against government corruption for their people and their land—but they were cowards at heart, more interested in attacking soft oil execs in the dark than fighting a real war.
Disgust boiled inside her, but she kept it off her face. Like it or not, she needed them. Sometimes completing a mission meant dealing with unsavory people. “I didn’t take your prisoner, but I know where he is. Your men, too.”
“And what do you want for this information?” Goody asked. His mask slipped up, and she could see the scar slicing horizontally across his face. Half his nose was missing. Her intel didn’t say how he’d received the scar, but local mythology claimed he did it to himself as an offering to the war god Egbesu, for whom his group was named, to make himself bulletproof.
She highly doubted he was bulletproof, but after scanning several of the unmasked faces of his men, she realized they all believed the legend enough to have mutilated themselves in similar fashions. For all intents and purposes, this group was a heavily armed cult.
She hoped she wasn’t in over her head here.
She met Goody’s bloodshot gaze again. “I want you to help me kidnap someone.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sunday pushed away from her microscope and shook her head slowly in shock. “It’s amazing. He’s virus-free.”
“Completely?” Claire let out her breath in a rush and leaped forward to take a look for herself. Sure enough, his cells were healthy and undamaged, with no sign of the football-shaped virus anywhere in any of his samples. “Holy shit. He’s cured.”
“But more than that, it’s like he never had the virus at all. Ebiere still has traces of it in her body, but it’s gone from Jean-Luc. His blood, saliva, semen. All clean.” Sunday jumped up and grabbed her iPad. “And have you looked at his arm recently? It’s almost completely healed.”
“What?” Claire snatched the tablet and studied the photo of Jean-Luc’s stitched wound. A wound as deep as that took weeks to heal, but Sunday wasn’t joking. His arm looked as if it had been treated for weeks rather than only a few days. He could probably even have the stitches removed. “How is this…?”
“You tell me. You’re the mad scientist.”
“No. Akeso couldn’t have…” She trailed off. She had been tweaking the formula to aid in healthy cell regeneration after the drug killed the virus. Had that caused his accelerated healing? “I didn’t expect that.”
“Do you know what this means?” Sunday squealed like an excited little girl and bounced on her feet. “You’ve made a super drug! If this works on all viruses, you’ve cured Ebola. Oh my God, HIV!”
Claire held up her hand in a slow down gesture, even though inwardly, she was bouncing as well. “Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We don’t know about potential side effects or—”
“Has he complained of any side effects?”
She looked down at the photo of his arm again, still stunned by what it was telling her. “Only headaches. He said they were bad at first but are weakening the stronger he gets. He’s also restless, but I’m not sure if that’s a side effect or if it’s normal for him. Marcus says he gets twitchy when he’s bored.”
“Well.” Sunday plucked the iPad from her hands and held it away when she tried to take it back. “Go relieve his boredom.”
Claire put her hands on her hips and scowled at her friend. “Sunday…no. It’s not like that.”
“It’s not? Because Abebi told me after she drew his blood this morning you stayed with him while he gave his semen sample.”
Her cheeks heated and she had no way of hiding the color she knew blazed there. Damn her pale skin. “Okay, so there is something. But he needs more time to heal and—”
“Excuses, excuses. He is healed, Claire. You saw his blood work. He’s fine.” She smirked. “In more ways than one. Don’t tell Dayo I said that.”
“Where is Dayo?”
“He took a day to go check on his family. He’s rightfully worried. And you’re changing the subject.” When Claire said nothing in response, she rolled her eyes and set the iPad aside. “Well, at the very least go spring him from the hospital and take him to the mess tent for a decent meal.”
“Okay.” Why was her heart hammering? Excitement. Nervousness. Maybe both? Probably both. Because Sunday was right and there was something between her and Jean-Luc. A spark that had been there from the start, and it thrilled and terrified her. “Okay,” she said again. “That I can do.”
As she walked toward the door, Sunday called, “And think about the other!”
Oh, she’d think about it all right. She’d thought of little else since she’d watched the man masturbate. It had left her feeling voyeuristic, dirty, and so achingly hot. She’d fantasized about touching him more times today than she cared to admit.
And now she could.
But should she? Even if she shouldn’t, would she anyway? Maybe. Sure, there was risk involved, but she had a feeling he’d be worth the potential of a broken heart. So worth it.
Still. She hadn’t worked it all out in her mind yet, and until she did, she had to keep her distance.
As usual, Jean-Luc wasn’t in his bed. She found him sitting with an old man, another of the few survivors, sharing a pineapple and conversing in Ijaw. That he’d learned so much of the language in his short time here was astounding. The man was brilliant, but he hid all that intelligence behind jokes and a playboy facade. Had to wonder why he felt the need.
He noticed her in the doorway and said something to his companion, then got up from his seat. There was more than a bit of devil in his smile as he approached the hanging plastic sheet that separated them. “Thought I scared you away.”
He had, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. “I don’t scare easily.”
“I like that about you, cher.” His gazed dropped to her bare hands. “You’re not wearing gloves.”
“I don’t have to anymore.” She pulled open the plastic door and motioned him through. “You can come out. You’re officially virus free.”
He opened his mouth, but for a man with such an innate grasp of languages, it seemed he couldn’t find words. He took one last look over his shoulder, then stepped through the plastic barrier.
“Your arm is almost healed, too,” she told him just to break his unnerving silence. “We can take the stitches out today. Of all the possible side effects, that one hadn’t been anywhere on my list and…”
She trailed off when he lifted his hand and let the pads of his fingers hover just over the curve of her cheek.
“Can I…touch you, ma belle?”
She sucked in a breath, met an all-too-serious-for-him gaze, and nodded. The tips of his fingers settled on her cheek, lightly traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck. He breathed out softly—a man awestruck. His hand circled the back of her neck and pulled her in closer. She could feel the heat of his body. Not a fever-heat anymore, but a potent male warmth she’d like to curl up against.
Yes. She’d wanted him to touch her like this from day one, and now that he was, she melted. Her knees wobbled before she locked them tight. As he lowered his head, she lifted her chin in invitation. But, damn him, he paused before their lips touched.
“Are you sure I can’t infect you?”
“Um…” She couldn’t think with his fingers wrapped around the back of her neck, and his thumb lightly caressing her jaw. “Yes, I’m sure. You’re cured.”
He
muttered something in a language she didn’t catch and then his mouth covered hers. He walked her backward until her butt hit a table, then trapped her there with his big body. Logic said she should’ve felt confined by him, besieged, but she didn’t. She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him in until her breasts flattened against his chest.
On a groan, he hoisted her up with one arm and dragged her leg around his waist. Yes. This was what she needed. He tasted sweet, like pineapple—such sharp contrast to the needy demand of his kiss. Her head buzzed and wild little bursts of desire electrified her nerve endings and soaked her panties. She squeezed her leg around his hips as a hollow, yearning ache bloomed between her thighs.
She’d never considered herself an especially sexual being, always too engrossed in the intellectual side of things to worry much about the physical. But the way he kissed her, devouring her like she was the best thing he’d ever had in his mouth, like he couldn’t get enough, made her feel like a siren.
No wonder he rarely heard the word “no” when he kissed like this.
The thought brought some sense back and she pressed her hands against his chest. This wasn’t the time or the place. She needed to get her bearings before anyone walked in on them.
Jean-Luc released her mouth and his hand trembled ever so slightly as he dragged it through his hair. The scrubs he wore did little to conceal the bulge of his erection. He muttered something under his breath in French that sounded like, “Fucking curse,” then he added in English, “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”
“Don’t be.” She jumped off the table and caught his hand before he could take another step backward. “I enjoyed it. This just isn’t the place.”
“Right. Alors pas. I’ve been frustrated…to say the least…and the cork popped when I touched you.”
Frustrated by her, or frustrated in general?
He’ll use you, too.
Shaking off Marcus’s warning, she touched her lips, loving that they felt bruised and swollen. Why was she dithering? She was a grown woman who knew what she was getting into. She dropped her hand and stepped forward, pressing her lips lightly against his. “There’s been a lot of death around me lately. For one night, I’d like to feel alive. Come to my tent later. It’s the one with the yellow door.”
He looked as if she’d smacked him. Completely stunned. “F’true?”
“Yes.” She held out her hand and after a moment, he took it. “Let’s get you cleaned up and fed first.”
Chapter Twenty
Bonheur. Xìngfú. Schast’ye. Felicidad. Glück. Saeada.
Jean-Luc knew many words for happiness, but none of them adequately described how amazing it felt to just walk through the drizzling rain on his own two feet. The air was hot and miserably wet, but he didn’t care at all because at least it wasn’t canned and filtered hospital air that smelled of bleach, blood, and death.
As they crossed the hospital grounds, he fell into step behind Claire, and then stopped altogether and raised his face to the sky. Rain splattered over him and he closed his eyes.
He was alive.
By all accounts, he shouldn’t be, but someone was looking out for him somewhere up there in the great unknown. Maybe he didn’t deserve this second chance, but he’d sure as hell not waste it.
“Jean-Luc, are you okay?”
He smiled at Claire’s question and jogged over to join her at the entrance of a tent. “I’m fine. Enjoying the moment.”
She gave him a puzzled look but said nothing more. “This is where Marcus has been staying. There’s an extra bed inside with your name on it. There are showers two tents over. I’m sure you’re wanting to clean up.”
“Thank you.”
She nodded. “When you’re done, meet me over there.” She pointed at another tent across the compound, the one closest to the river. “It’s the mess tent. It’s early for dinner, but I’ll have one of our cooks warm something for you.”
He caught her hand. “And later…”
She smiled and gave his hand a squeeze before dropping it. “Later.”
A whispered promise.
Jean-Luc watched her walk away, caught somewhere between amusement and arousal. Claire was…something else. Unlike any woman he’d ever known. He was as attracted to her mind as he was her body, which was new for him. He’d always kept his past lovers at a distance. He’d taken pleasure in them, and them in him, and then they’d parted ways without ever taking the time to know more about each other.
With Claire, he wasn’t convinced he’d want to kick her out of his bed and part ways. Just the thought of never seeing her again bloomed an ache deep inside him. But what if she wanted no more than his usual slam, bam, thank you, sir?
Merde.
Either way, he had the unsettling feeling that he’d break more than the voodoo curse of celibacy tonight and everything would change. It was both thrilling and kinda terrifying. Did he really want to venture into the land of—gulp —monogamy?
He shook off the thought and ducked into the tent. It was dim inside, lit by only one battery powered lantern with its batteries on the last of their juice. Two cots, not much better than the ones in the hospital, sat off to each side.
Marcus lay on one, but jumped up when the flap door opened. He had his weapon in hand and looked as if he hadn’t slept in months.
Jean-Luc held up his hands, and Marcus blinked like he wasn’t sure if what he was seeing was real or not. Then he lowered the weapon. “Oh. Hey. It’s you.”
“Just little ol’ me.” Jean-Luc had never seen him so jumpy. The guy was usually solid, but exhaustion had made him ragged around the edges. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Fine.” Marcus ran a hand over his face. “And I should be the one asking you that. Are you feeling all right?”
“Fit as a fiddle. Actually better. My knee’s not even bothering me.” An old injury from his short-lived high school football career usually flared up whenever it rained, but he felt not even the slightest twinge despite the downpour outside. And hadn’t Claire said something about his injured arm healing faster than it should have? She’d said the stitches could come out, and it didn’t hurt anymore. Well, put two and two together and that could mean only one thing.
He grinned at the thought. “Pretty sure I’m a superhero now. Like Deadpool.”
Marcus laughed, and to Jean-Luc’s complete shock, the laugh morphed into something that sounded very close to a sob. Marcus stepped forward and grabbed him in a hug hard enough to test those superhero healing abilities.
“I thought I was going to lose you, too.” Marcus’s voice was muffled by his shoulder. “I saw you in that bed and all I could picture was Danny dying in my arms. I couldn’t go there again.”
Jesus, the guy was coming apart at the seams. Truth be told, the whole thing made Jean-Luc uncomfortable. He’d never been good with the deep emotional stuff, preferred to keep everything light and airy and easy. He awkwardly patted Marcus’s back. “Hey, now, mon ami, I’m okay.”
Marcus hung on for several moments more, then as if he realized what he was doing, he straightened his shoulders and stepped back. “Sorry, man.”
Jean-Luc waved a hand dismissively. “No worries. I get it.” And he did, but that understanding didn’t make the whole sitch any less uncomfortable for him. “But you look like shit warmed over, and that coming from a guy who was on his death bed less than five days ago, is saying something. You gotta take care of yourself. Danny wouldn’t want you to kill yourself over him.”
“I’m not going to kill myself.”
“Yeah, not with a bullet, but you keep going like you have been, you’ll get the same result.”
“Now you sound like Jesse.”
Jean-Luc winced. Jesse Warrick, HORNET’s medic, could be a naggy fils de putain. Being compared to him wasn’t a compliment.
“I promised Leah I’d find the guy who took her husband from her. I’m not stopping until I do.” Marcus turned away, went back over to his cot
and grabbed his pack from the floor. “So let’s finish this mission and get Claire to safety.”
As long as the virus was here, Claire wouldn’t leave without a fight. “She won’t go.”
“She won’t have a choice.”
“No, I won’t force her. Our best bet is to protect her here until she’s ready to go.” But they’d need more manpower for that. It was only a matter of time until Defion found her, if they hadn’t already. The virus crisis may keep them away for a bit but if this thing dragged out, they wouldn’t wait forever. “Have you contacted Tuc, Gabe, or anyone else on the team?”
Resigned, Marcus let his pack thump back to the floor. “No.”
Yeah, he figured as much. They were likely personae non gratae with HORNET right now, but he didn’t think Tuc or Gabe would leave an innocent woman in danger just because he and Marcus had gone AWOL. He’d have to swallow his pride and ask for their help.
Marcus sat down on his cot. “You want to contact them, don’t you?”
Either the guy had picked up mind reading abilities in the last few weeks or Jean-Luc was broadcasting his every thought on his face.
“Tomorrow,” he decided. “First, I gotta know more about the virus situation. The guys are all family men now—except Ian and Harvard, but I won’t even ask them to come if there’s any risk of exposure.”
Marcus frowned. “What was it like?”
He said nothing for a moment, because even with his grasp of multiple languages, he couldn’t find the words for the pain he’d experienced. “Remember Siddiqui?” They’d stopped the Afghan warlord from purchasing a suitcase nuke a couple years ago, but not before the violent bastard had destroyed so many lives. “Or how about Rorro Rivera?” The little shit had been a psychopath. “Or, the king of the asshole baddies, Liam Miller?”
“Yeah, what abut them?”
“It was so painful, I wouldn’t even wish this virus on them.” And there were innocent people—children, babies—dying of it as they stood here chatting. His throat closed up. “Yeah. It was bad.”
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