The Mercenary's Kiss

by Pam Crooks

  “You’re cold,” he said, stepping closer. He was responsible for it. He’d taken her towel, after all. His arms took her in, enfolded her wet body against him, absorbing her cold.

  “Are you up to it?” she asked, her words soft, worried.

  “What? Holding you like this?”

  She went still at his teasing. “No, Jeb. Are you up to getting Nicky back?”

  He chuckled, low and quiet in her ear. “I’ve never felt better, darlin’.”

  Or more desirous of a woman, of Elena, than now.

  He expected her to resist, to plant her hands against his chest and push him away in a burst of feminine defiance.

  Two days ago, she would have. One.

  Surprisingly enough, today, this minute, she didn’t.

  Maybe she’d gotten used to touching him while he was sick. Or maybe she was so caught up in the prospect of snatching her son from the revolutionaries that she wasn’t aware of the lust building inside Jeb with every breath he took.

  But the faint tremble that went through her convinced him, yeah, she did.

  His head lowered. He traced the curve of her ear with his tongue and drew her lobe between his teeth with a tender nibble.

  “Bathe with me, Elena,” he whispered. He sucked gently against the curve of her neck. “Then make love to me.”

  Her breath caught at his bold proposition, and she trembled again. “I can’t.”

  “I want you.” He dragged his teeth slowly along her jaw. Licked and tasted her wet skin. “You have any idea how much?”

  “Jeb.” She’d kept her arms between them, but now they unfolded and moved to his chest, her palms tentative against him, as if she wanted to snake her arms around his neck but held back before she did. “Please.”

  “Please what? Please make love to me, Jeb? Please strip me naked and get in the water with me, Jeb?” he taunted in a husky whisper.

  She pressed her lips together. But her eyes closed and she angled her head, giving him freedom to nuzzle her some more.

  “What do you want, Elena?” Persistent, his hands rubbed down her spine and spread to cup her buttocks in his palms. He pressed her against him, let her feel how hard he was for her. “Tell me.”

  A sound of distress escaped her, and her arms lifted hesitantly to his shoulders. Still she held back, and he marveled at her self-control when his own was disintegrating like smoke in the wind. He dragged hot kisses over her cheek, her cheekbone, the corner of her eye.

  He tasted the salt of a single tear snared in her lashes, and he knew, then, he was moving too fast. Ramon de la Vega had tromped upon her womanly needs with his violence and buried them so deeply he made her afraid to feel them again.

  Afraid.

  Jeb swore inwardly and reined in tight his own needs. Elena had been through hell. He had to remember that. He had to give her the time she needed to heal.

  Damn it, he intended to see that she did. A beautiful, vibrant woman like Elena needed a man to pleasure her senseless until she felt so utterly female she would forget that horrible hell she had once lived.

  Jeb took her mouth with his in a gentle but persistent assault of kisses. They would be the beginning, his kisses. To break through the barriers of apprehension and resistance until she couldn’t deny she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  His hands slid back up her spine and circled her tight. She rose up on tiptoe, letting him hold her, kiss her, over and over. She molded to him, her lips moving, seeking. Wet.

  His blood burned hotter. He didn’t know how long he could keep his restraints in place with all she made him feel. He groaned, low and not a little frustrated, then pulled back, fisting his hand into the soap-clean tangles of her hair.

  “I’m going to make love to you, Elena. Y’hear me?” he murmured against the warm skin at her temple. “Not now. But it’s going to happen. I want you to think on it. And I want you to want it and be ready for it because, sweetheart, I’m wanting you so bad it’s making me crazy.”

  She stared up at him, her lips swollen, her eyes shimmering. Her throat worked, as if she tried to speak but couldn’t.

  “Nothing’s going to happen until you’re ready. I swear it.” He kissed her one last time, long and lingering and sweet.

  She drew away and touched his cheek. “Jeb, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “You’re making me want…something I’ve never let myself think about. I’m afraid to. I—”

  She clamped her mouth shut. Jeb figured it cost her some to admit that much, not only to him, but to herself.

  “Then I’m glad it’s me who’s making you want, and not someone else.”

  He lowered his head to kiss her again but glimpsed movement in the trees. A familiar face who came to call.

  “Go on and get dressed,” he said, his ardor fast cooling. He took her towel and wrapped it around her. “Simon’s here. Might be he has news to share with us.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shadows leapt and lunged against the rocky wall of the grotto in a jerky dance of firelight that cast Simon’s features into eerie relief. His wiry hair stuck out from his head like frizzed cotton, and his skin looked tough as cowhide. A bizarre little man, Jeb thought. But a kind one.

  He and Elena had become fast friends during the short time Jeb had taken sick. They had talked quietly while Simon taught her to make tortillas, roll the dough to the right thickness, test the heat of the griddle. She made a good-size stack while Jeb ate his dinner of beans and rice, his attention more on her than the food in front of him.

  She had a rapport with Simon that Jeb envied. She was relaxed. Smiling. Not as skittish around the old man as she was with Jeb.

  But then, if her kisses this afternoon were any indication, she was getting better about it.

  The thought consoled him, and he hefted another forkful of rice into his mouth.

  “He is hungry, eh, Elena?” Black eyes twinkling, Simon glanced over at Jeb. “A good sign he is feeling better.”

  “Hmm. His second plate already.” She set aside the cast-iron griddle to cool. “Shall I offer him a third?”

  “No, no. He will—how do you say it?—explode.” Simon grinned.

  Jeb grunted and washed down the last of the beans with a gulp of cold water fresh from the falling stream. “Can’t remember being so hungry.”

  “You recovered quickly from the malaria, Señor Jeb. I would not have thought it possible.”

  Elena poured coffee into a tin cup and handed it to him. “That’s because I gave him my father’s medicine.”

  “Gracias.” Simon sipped, winced at the hot brew on his tongue. “Your father’s medicine?”

  “He’s concocted an elixir.” Jeb accepted the cup she gave him and blew once on the steaming liquid to cool it some before drinking. “It’s—” He almost said miraculous. “Well, it’s good. Guess I’m proof of that.”

  “It’s better than good, Jeb,” Elena chided, and returned the enamel coffeepot to the fire. She winked at Simon. Jeb saw the pride in that wink. “It’s miraculous, actually.”

  “Made from the secrets of the ancients.” The words were out before Jeb could stop them.

  He frowned again.

  “Is your father a doctor?” Simon asked.

  “No. But he’s helped heal many people. He’s as capable as any licensed physician.”

  The little Mexican eyed her with sudden sadness. “I think he will be worried about you here in Mexico, no?”

  She drew her knees up to her chest, rested her chin on top, and sighed. “Most assuredly. He’s in San Antonio. A hospital there.”

  Simon clucked his tongue in surprise. “Oh?”

  “Got roughed up when de la Vega took the boy.” Jeb leaned back and pulled a cigarette from his pocket.

  “Ramon. Always Ramon.” Contempt dripped from Simon’s tone.

  “He has certainly made our lives difficult,” Elena murmured.

  “Hell is more like it.” Jeb lit th
e tobacco and thought of all she’d been through.

  “Ramon knows you are looking for him,” Simon said grimly.

  Jeb exhaled with a slow nod. “I suspected Bender told him as much.”

  “Sí, he did.” Simon sipped again from the cup. “You know the sergeant came, then.”

  “Yes, Elena saw him.”

  “He thinks his partner, the corporal, is dead.”

  “He is.”

  “And you killed him?”

  “Yeah. Couldn’t be helped.”

  Simon shrugged. “It is better that way.”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “Bender is dead, too.”

  Jeb squinted against curling smoke. “You know that for sure?”

  “Sí. I saw how they killed him.”

  “A firing squad?”

  “No,” Simon said with a shake of his head. “Esteban and Fernando buried him to the neck, then galloped over his head with their horses. I am sure Sergeant Bender was happy to die, then.”

  “Oh, my God.” Elena jerked back in shock. “And these barbarians have my son!”

  “But not for long.” Jeb vowed it.

  “When do you intend to take him?” Simon asked.

  “Tonight. After dark.”

  Simon nodded agreement vigorously. “You must move quickly. Ramon has made plans to pull out as soon as his rifles arrive. He has posted more guards around his camp because he knows you will come for little Nicky.”

  “You know where the guards are?” Jeb asked.

  “Sí. I was there when he gave them their orders.”

  “Good.” Anticipation began to build inside Jeb.

  “My home is not far from here. Elena can wait for you there,” Simon said.

  Elena straightened. “I’ll do no such thing.”

  Jeb ground out the stub of his cigarette in the dirt. He groped in his brain for a way to convince her to stay behind and let him kidnap Nicky without her.

  He failed.

  “The boy knows his mother,” Jeb said finally. “He’ll raise less fuss with her.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “Besides, I’d have to tie her to a tree before she’d let me go without her.”

  Elena was not amused.

  “Do either of you really think I’d stay behind after I’ve come this far for him?” she asked, looking so offended even Jeb regretted entertaining the thought.

  “Por Dios, it is dangerous,” Simon fussed.

  The smart thing to do was to go without her, as Simon insisted. She’d be less baggage. Safe. Jeb could move in among the revolutionaries, take the boy and escape without having to worry about her tripping him up somewhere along the way. Any rule book would state a soldier, even a mercenary like himself, would leave a woman behind.

  It was what the General would do. Leave her behind.

  “She comes, but she follows my orders,” Jeb said, refusing to acknowledge the rebellion that still ran strong within him where his father was concerned. His stern gaze found Elena. “But we don’t do a damn thing until we come up with a foolproof plan that will keep us all alive, y’hear me?”

  “Yes,” she sniffed.

  A moment passed.

  “Do you have a plan yet?” she asked.

  “No, Elena,” he said, mildly exasperated. “But I will soon enough.”

  “Well, I do.”

  He regarded her. “That a fact?”

  “Want to hear it?”

  The quiet intensity in her voice suggested that, whatever her plan was, she’d thought it through and was convinced it would work. Jeb admitted to a certain curiosity. Hell, at this point, his options were wide-open.

  He leaned forward. “Talk, darlin’. I’m listening.”

  Elena carefully pulled the branch down to better see through the leaves into Ramon’s camp. She winced at the faint rustle the movement made but assured herself the revolutionaries couldn’t hear this far away. Still it would only take one to notice their presence in the trees, then all would be lost.

  Jeb lifted the field glasses and peered through the lenses from the opening she’d made. He scanned the camp slowly, methodically, committing each man’s location to memory, each woman and child, each stray dog. The horses, the fires, the weapons. Each cooking pot, each bottle of tequila.

  And Nicky, she knew, most of all.

  He was with the plump, gray-haired woman again. Doña Pia, Simon had told Elena. Ramon’s aunt. Wearing his little red shirt and dungarees again, Nicky sat on a blanket at her feet and played with toys too small to distinguish. He seemed content enough and, for that, Elena was grateful.

  The guards, of course, were not as visible. Simon had pinpointed their locations, which were far more discreet—deeper into the trees. They protected their own from afar, under strict orders from Ramon. No one would be able to slip into camp without being seen.

  “That is Fernando, there by the twisted old oak. See him?” whispered Simon.

  “I see him.” Jeb halted the lenses over the unsuspecting Mexican. “He looks about Elena’s size.”

  “Sí. I think so.”

  “All right. I’m going down.” He handed the glasses to her. “I’ll make this quick. Be ready when I come back.”

  She nodded. “I will be.”

  “Simon?”

  “I know what to do, Señor Jeb.”

  So did Elena. Jeb had drilled the plan into their heads, over and over again.

  “Watch my back. But don’t let anyone see you,” he ordered.

  “That would ruin everything if I did, eh?”

  Despite the flippancy of his words, Simon’s expression was serious as his gnarled fingers grasped the revolver Jeb pressed into his hand.

  A knapsack lay at Jeb’s feet. Next to it, a paraphernalia of items he’d removed from the inside. He squatted, slipped a bowie knife between his teeth, then stuffed a long strip of cotton fabric and a coil of wire into a pocket. He worked fast, his movements so brisk and methodical Elena couldn’t help knowing he’d done all this before.

  He tugged on gloves, pulled his hat lower over his eyes and rose. She sensed the adrenaline coursing through him, the ruthlessness he kept tight inside him. He showed no fear at what he was about to do, at the danger he would be in. He thrived on it, the danger, met it head-on, and he excited her more than any man she’d ever known.

  His glance lingered over her but for a moment, then he was gone before she could whisper her worry for his safety. Simon followed, just far enough back to keep him in sight.

  Alone, Elena set to work, readying herself for Jeb’s return. She stripped off her shoes, blouse and skirt, then swiftly brushed her hair back into a thick knot high on her head, holding the strands snug to her head with pins. She’d already penciled in a thin mustache over her lip from stage makeup she kept in her valise, and the sombrero she would soon have would help hide her face.

  She stood bare legged in her chemise and once again peered through the opening in the branches. The fires in Ramon’s camp threw off enough light for her to find Jeb in a stealthy approach toward the guard from behind. Elena held her breath, fearful the snap of a twig would betray his intent, but Fernando never suspected Jeb was there until the wire around his throat told him.

  With his air choked off, Fernando’s eyes rolled back and he crumpled. Jeb released the wire and caught him as he fell, then dragged him into the shadows. Simon appeared one moment; in the next, he disappeared with Jeb. After a short period of time, where Elena’s heart threatened to pound right out of her chest, Simon reappeared again, his arms full of the guard’s clothes, and Jeb soon followed. Both of them were safe with Fernando hidden, bound, gagged and thankfully unconscious.

  Simon hurried up the hill toward her. “Here you are, Elena. A good fit, no?”

  “Yes, I think so,” she said, pulling on the black shirt still warm from the rebel’s body. “The pants, too.” She fastened the buttons of both garments and stepped back into her shoes.

  “You look just like one
of them,” Jeb muttered, and pushed the sombrero onto her head.

  “I have to,” she said.

  It was the only way her plan would work. Fast talking on her part had convinced Jeb to go along with the scheme. He’d been dead-set against her getting anywhere near the revolutionaries.

  But one of them had to—to get Nicky.

  Elena insisted on being the one. She had the training. The skill. As his mother, she was best suited for it—Jeb had said as much, earlier—and when Simon reluctantly concurred the plan could work, Jeb had agreed. But only after he insisted on being right in the camp with her, in the shadows, heavily armed and prepared to kill to defend her.

  Her fingers explored the wide, beaded brim of the sombrero. The sheer breadth of it would take some getting used to, but that same breadth would hide her blond hair and pale, feminine features. She had no choice but to wear the thing.

  She was ready to go. A final glimpse into the revolutionaries’ camp showed they had lined flaming torches in two rows between the cabins, forming a corridor of sorts. The firelight cast the entire area with daylike brilliance, an advantage she and Jeb needed now that night had fallen.

  The anticipation in the camp was palpable. The pleasure of the entertainment to come.

  “Ramon was a trick rider not so long ago,” Simon whispered. “It is how he met Emiliano Zapata, when they both worked for a rodeo show in Mexico City. They are excellent horsemen. And Ramon likes to remind his people just how good he is.”

  “His men are bored,” Jeb mused, watching the rebels mill about, bottles of tequila in their hands. “They’ll do anything for some excitement.”

  “A little show will help them pass the time until the rifles arrive,” Elena mused.

  “Sí. Ramon can afford the luxury. He knows the men he has posted around the camp will guard him and their families while he shows off.” Simon’s lip curled in disgust. “See how he struts among them like a rooster?”

  “It’s time we knock him down a peg or two.” Jeb’s shadowed gaze found Simon. “You sure you’re going to be okay going down there?”